On [being sure of the future by] Remembering.

A view of the mountains and the city from the terrace of the Musée Dauphinois in Grenoble, France.
Honestly, this has nothing to do with this blog post,
but I've already shown you what the view out my window looks like.

I've found the perfect little nook in my room for nestling into. With the window open and my knees pulled up against my chest, I wedge myself into a place where my back rests upon the open pane and my toes curl under the table in front of me.
It's best when I'm drinking tea (mostly because the coffee here leaves much to be desired).

This afternoon, one of the neighbors has a fireplace going. Between the tweets of the birds (I'm not making this up!), I hear the trickling-splatty sounds of rain on the roofs.
It's like Oregon-rain. Long and drippy, much better than the stormy rain in Missouri. It's like slow steady tears, rather than sobby outbursts.

A new friend and I went through our life timelines today.
And we remembered.

I remembered...
where the Lord has brought me,
what he has taught me,
the people he has given to me to enjoy life with,
and what he has allowed me to experience.

I know it all had a purpose.
From being rescued from certain death as a 6-week-old baby to being sure God was speaking to me through a project in middle school.
He has been there.

My life thus far has been full.
...of wonderful, delightful, messy, joyful, challenging, and stretching experiences.
I can count this among those times.

I count these three months when I jet off to another part of this ever-shrinking world (that still seems so big). I count these days where I live with Venezuelans, hang out with French, and am intrigued by the North Africans living in the apartments down the block.

God brings each of us to the places where we are, and I can't believe any of it's an accident.
I must believe that, if I let Him, He will be faithful to direct my steps, always knowing my path before I walk it. I just have to be present on the journey.

So I sit in my nook overlooking my own little portion of Grenoble: where most of the buildings pre-date the United States, and most of the people weren't born here.
I'm waiting.
I'm asking.
But mostly, I'm being.
I'm being here.
Because someday—in two or five or 10 or 25 years—I will remember how these three months on my timeline helped determine the trajectory of my life.